Anyway, really I just want to talk about taking the school bus home after school. But I didn’t take the bus home, so…I won’t be talking about that. Besides, I’m not talking, I’m writing.
I lived in Allen, Washington, a tiny, podunk town four miles up the Chuckanut Highway from Burlington. I was a sophomore at the Burlington-Edison High School. Another grueling day managed to drill its way by in school, and it was time to go home.
Mr. Sullivan, the school bus driver, was a big man with an attitude. He was also very anti-Christian and knew that I am a P.K. Well, when I was boarding the bus, I stopped beside Mr. Sullivan as he waited in the driver’s seat. I leaned toward him and whispered, “Your violin’s open.” His eyes widened and he looked down at his fly and reached to zip it up. When he saw that it wasn’t open to begin with, I smiled and said, “Ohhhh, is that what you fiddle with?!”
Mr. Sullivan stood up, and the next thing I knew, I was standing on the sidewalk as the school bus drove away. I had to call my Dad to come and pick me up. Some people just don’t have a sense of humor.
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